


hold, and resist

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:23:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: A nature witch and a city witch join a rebellion.





	hold, and resist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveradept](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/gifts).



Anita thought she disliked the wide open air and the unnatural stillness of uninhabited land, but now that they’re running from the Inspectors she’s realized that she dislikes villages even more. Cities are her domain, and she is eminently comfortable in cities, especially the city where she was born, and lived most of her life in (barring travel) until Theodosia came into her life like a perfect whirlwind, disrupting and destroying everything in her path and sweeping Anita along with her in a tumultuous but joyful ride.

But—

But.

Anita is a healer, and she loves people. She loved working her magic and making people better above all other uses she has for her power, and it makes her feel like a fraud and a liar to slip between paths here, skirting on the edges of the village and preparing to stage a revolt on behalf of the land, not when she speaks for the injured and wounded, not when she cannot understand the power Theodosia holds within herself.

But it was Theodosia that made her choose, and she follows Theodosia now because the choice was the right one. She has treated the wounds caused by Amrilla and her Inspectors too long, and even though the people do not weep as the land apparently does, to Theodosia, they still suffer. And so she choose, and so she now stands on the outskirts of some forelone town, waiting for the man who is now emerging.

The man comes to meet them. He's holding himself stiffly, darting wary glances at Anita, and the first words that come out of his mouth are “Who is this?”

“My companion,” Theodosia says. “She can be trusted.” Then, “The horns will sound soon, Nevon. Are you ready?”

 _Horns?_  The horns only sound at a royal death, or when a ruler rides out to war, and Theodosia has no way to predict the former.

The man, too, startles. “So soon?”

“Your weapons are ready?” Theodosia is hard, unyielding in the face of his shock.

“Theodosia, what—”

Theodosia doesn't even turn to face her. “Anita. I'll explain later.” The way she holds herself makes it clear that no more interruptions will be tolerated.

Anita shuts her mouth; one of the first things Emilla taught her was to listen to someone who has, in that moment, a clearer idea of the situation than she does. (And she doesn't want to be sent away. This is  _interesting_.)

The man, Nevon Theodosia had said, is nodding. “Yes, yes, everything is ready. We're ready, and we'll send the children to safety as soon as we hear something, and everyone who can't fight.” He's rabbity, nervous. Even Anita can see the way he's moving, vibrating, unable to stay still.

Theodosia can see that too, apparently, because her face softens. “The Queen does not demand unwilling obedience, Nevon. Anyone who wishes to seek safety is free to do so.”

But Nevon shakes his head. “There's not a single person among us who remembers life before Amrilla who wouldn't fight. The land's been without a voice for too long, and our crops are suffering.”

“That does not mean you need to fight,” Theodosia says, but Anita can see she's speaking for the necessity of saying something, not because she believes what she's actually saying.

Nevon frowns at her. “We  _will_  fight.”

Theodosia bows her head. “I don't doubt it.”

Anita thinks they'll move out after that, back to the wild (and she won't admit it, but she almost longs for the safety that anonymity provides). Instead, Theodosia beckons to her to go farther into the village.

Almost immediately, they're swarmed by children. Young children, maybe five or six years old, some younger, all clamouring for Theodosia. Under Anita's astonished eyes, Theodosia—transforms, softens. She sits in the dust and allows the children to climb all over her, a baby who can't be more than a few cycles nestled in the crook of her arm. She lets them tug her hair and armour and laughs at them and giggles with them and calls them by pet names. It's obvious they're all familiar with each other, and as Anita watches, something like fondness crawls its way into her chest. It's a side of Theodosia she'd only ever seen once before, when their paths had crossed long ago and she'd seen the girl, barely a woman then, cradling a young puppy and whispering sweet nothings to it. (And maybe it's strange that she's still remembering that incident, but it's Theodosia.)

Even Theodosia isn't enough to distract her trained eye from wandering, though. Some of the children's bellies are distended with hunger, and more worryingly, there are sores and hives covering their skin. Things that can be easily treated, some of them, and when she turns to Theodosia to ask her whether she can see to the children, Theodosia's already nodding at her. “Go on, Anita.”

Anita doesn't need any further instruction. She sinks into her work, and as she works with the children more people come up, babies in their parents' arms and toddlers and older children and old men and women, and, later, the working-age adults too.

It's past sundown by the time she's finished working, and she only realises she's numb with exhaustion when Theodosia gently ushers the last of her patients away and prises her mortar and pestle from her hands, where she'd been about to grind more paste for wounds. “Come, Anita. It's time to sleep.”

They lay their mats out on the floor of a hut Nevon shows them, and there's straw to stretch them out on, a luxury Anita has become unused to in the short time she's been on the run, and cushions. There are  _cushions_ , threadbare and ragged though they may be, clean cushions, luxuries she hasn't seen since she left Emilla's house in Izilia months ago.

 

And—

 

And they’re alone. They are, for once, blessedly, completely alone, and Anita relishes that. She reaches out, takes Theodosia’s hand in hers, and kisses her.

 

After that it’s fast and dizzying. They have to be silent, for the walls of the huts are thin and every noise runs the risk of alerting their hosts to their actions and thus a potentially embarrassing situation the next morning. The hands over each other’s mouths add a certain element of thrill to the act, so it is not as if Anita particularly minds.

 

They make love desperately, knowing that it might be the last time, knowing each day that they might die. And the bits of their magic that slip into the act take it further, make it more pleasurable, and they soar higher and higher, until at last Anita reaches a peak, and Theodosia follows her.

 

Afterwards, they lie comfortable and sated, cradling each other in their arms, and Anita thinks that, whatever the future may hold, for this moment alone, she is selfishly glad of the choices she has made.


End file.
